


Onion Tries To Kill Marty Because He Loves His Family

by CaptainJZH



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: (But he fucks him up real good), (He doesn't kill him), Ass-Kicking, Dark Comedy, Gen, Marty is a very bad man, Onion takes care of him though, Swearing, Vidalia Has A Shotgun, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 21:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17454572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainJZH/pseuds/CaptainJZH
Summary: In which Onion tries to kill Marty because he loves his family.





	Onion Tries To Kill Marty Because He Loves His Family

Onion started his day like he always did. He pulled up his red, feet-covering sweats (shoes felt uncomfortable on his heels), threw on his white, long-sleeved T-shirt and wrapped his trademark blue hoodie around his neck. It didn’t fit him anymore, but he remembered it fondly as a gift from his mother for his second birthday. He loved his mother very much.

 

He also loved his brother, though they didn’t talk much, and his father, though he was rarely in town. Onion didn’t have many friends. He had his gang that came to town every summer, but for the rest of the year he just had his family and Steven. (He liked Steven, though he was busy these days, too.)

 

Today, he heard his mother and brother being quite loud downstairs. It wasn’t like them to be angry. He wondered what was the matter.

 

“I cannot _believe_ him!” his mother shouted. “He thinks he can _get away_ with this?”

 

“Look mom, I don’t like the guy either, but there’s nothing we can do!”

 

“That was _your_ style of DJing!

 

“Yeah, but it’s not like I copyrighted using Game Guys for rave music.”

 

“And _he_ did! And now he gets 50% of all your DJing money?”

 

“Mom, it’s not just _me._ A lot of other DJs are gonna lose from this.”

 

“But he’s _your_ father!”

 

Onion did not know much about his brother’s father— they were half-brothers, in that they shared only one parent —but he did know that nobody liked him. Well, that was an exaggeration. Onion rather liked his taste in cola, but then again he had a unique palette. However, Onion’s love for his family outweighed his love the recently-discontinued taste of Guacola, and he couldn’t stand to see them in such distress.

 

This ‘Marty’ was taking something from his family. And everyone knew that taking something that doesn’t belong to you was illegal. Well, at least Onion knew that, considering he’d been chased after by Mr. Smiley more than enough times to learn it, although that certainly wasn’t going to stop him. But nobody would be chasing after Marty, it would seem. This was wrong.

 

What kind of world would it be if bad people didn’t get punished for their actions? Onion did not like that prospect.

 

Onion got an idea.

 

Onion would have to take matters into his own hands.

 

\---

 

It was a little known fact that Onion knew how to drive. Then again, “little” was relative, considering most of Beach City knew, but didn’t particularly care. Either way, it was this fact that allowed Onion to borrow his mother’s car keys, which in turn allowed him to start the car and begin driving up the main road.

 

It was a well-known fact that Onion was incredibly short. This was rather normal, considering he was only four years old, but it was also a severe inhibition to his driving skills, in that it meant he couldn’t exactly _see_ over the dashboard. Or reach the pedals. Or adjust the radio (which was the only one that truly bothered him, since his mother had tuned to a rather loud Heavy Metal station, and he did not like loud noises that much). He had managed to shove an old phone book onto the accelerator, which was sufficient since he didn’t know what he would need the other pedal for.

 

Nor did he know why everyone on the freeway up to Empire City was honking at him. He did know what the loud sirens behind him meant, but that was nothing that he hadn’t dealt with before.

 

\---

 

Marty had a penthouse office atop a large skyscraper in the heart of Empire City.

 

Well, okay, he _used_ to _tell people_ that he had a penthouse office. Of course, his office back in the ‘90s was still nothing to sneeze at, but his office now was more sneeze-at-able than tissue paper. “Martin Wurster Music Management” used to have over $40 million in assets, and was up there in the big leagues… until more than a few harassment lawsuits, copyright infringement lawsuits, breach-of-contract lawsuits and all around bad investments left him with nothing but the advertising account for a now-defunct cola company that nobody liked. Well that, and the Pepe’s Burgers royalties, but he was well aware of where that went (“Stupid lawyers…” he muttered to himself from time to time).

 

Luckily, his son in that rinky-dink Beach City place had given him an idea, and after some rather clever legal maneuvering if he did say so himself, he managed to score the copyright on the latest DJing fad. 50% royalty fee, too! Hopefully it would be enough to keep up the rent this week. Also the drinking money. And the drug money. And the hush money to keep the people supplying the drug money quiet.

 

In hindsight, those would also explain the lax profits...

 

\---

 

Onion knew Marty’s address from the phone book. In fact, it was the same phone book that was perpetually pressing down on the gas, which he read whilst he was driving. (He didn’t have to keep his hands on the wheel at _all_ times, surely?) His phone (okay, his mother’s phone that he was also borrowing) had a GPS that told him how to get there, which was helpful since, again, he couldn’t exactly see.

 

_“Turn left,”_ the phone told him.

 

Onion turned left, and heard several loud crashing noises that he usually ignored. Then there were also the screaming noises, which he also ignored, followed by several large bumps which the car ran over, which he also ignored.

 

_“Your destination will be on the right.”_

 

Onion craned his head high enough to see Marty up ahead, walking out of an alley and onto the sidewalk. It was time.

 

\---

 

Marty fumbled around in his pocket, looking for his wallet. He had twelve whole counterfeit bills in there, and he was determined to use them, dammit! The old man sighed, finding his pockets empty.

 

“Probably left ‘em on the desk,” he muttered, turning back into the alley.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a car careening towards him, hopping the curve and barreling down the alley.

 

_“Fuck!”_ he cursed, leaping out of the way just in time.

 

The car smashed through several garbage cans and old boxes, before coming to a stop just ahead.

 

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” Marty shouted, running down the alleyway to give that moron a piece of his mind.

 

He stopped dead in his tracks when the sedan’s brake lights shut off, and were replaced by white _reverse_ lights as the car began moving towards him once more.

 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…” he said under his breath, forcing his aged legs to get moving.

 

The car (which to his horror didn’t appear to have a driver) grew faster and faster, quickly catching up to him. And unfortunately, the alleyway didn’t have much room for him to duck out of the way. Realizing that running from whatever kind of psycho car this was wasn’t going to work, Marty looked up above and saw the fire escape leading back to his office (which he’d been using as an exit so as to avoid his landlord).

 

The aging music producer leapt up at the ladder, grabbing hold of the last rung as the car sped by underneath him. It stopped at the end of the alleyway, and the door slowly opened. Cursing under his breath, Marty forced himself up the ladder, hearing bones crack where he didn’t know he even had bones. Panting and wheezing for breath, he made it up the ladder and collapsed onto the metal grating, before hearing the eardrum-shattering sound of a shotgun going off.

 

_“Fucking hell!”_ he gasped as the round missed and instead took out the window behind him.

 

Marty forced himself off the floor and scrambled up the fire escape steps, all while even more shotgun rounds fired at him, until he reached his office window on the fifth floor. He dived through the open window, feeling his back give out as he hit the floor.

 

“Ah, shit…” he muttered, before another gunshot shattered his window, making him jump. “What the hell is this, some horror movie I’m not producing?”

 

He squirmed his way out of the window’s line of sight and got up, pushing a tall wooden cabinet against the window to block it.

 

“Let’s see _that_ stop ya.”

 

\---

 

Down in the alleyway, Onion sighed, throwing down his mother’s shotgun (which he also borrowed) in disappointment.

 

He wasn’t making this easy, was he?

 

\---

 

Marty’s heart rate had thankfully slowed after a good several minutes of heavy breathing (which the doc had said was also bad for his health, but he shut him up with the threat of a malpractice lawsuit years ago).

 

“Dammit,” he sighed. “Probably should have used the _good_ counterfeits for the drugs…”

 

Now which brand of mob enforcers were after him this time? The Russians? The Italians? The Mexicans? All three?

 

\---

 

“Aw, you’re such a cute kid!” the woman at the front steps of the building said as Onion stood blankly at the door. “You looking for your parents?”

 

Onion nodded. (Marty was only his brother’s father, but that made him _a_ parent, which was close enough.)

 

“Well come on in!” the woman said, her voice cheerful and squeaky. “You know where they are?”

 

Onion nodded again, determining which room Marty had entered and visualizing the layout of the building in his head.

 

“Well just head on up then! Have fun!” the woman said, waving after the child as he hopped up the steps.

 

\---

 

Marty, still hiding in the corner, jumped when he heard a knock at his door.

 

_This is it,_ he thought.

 

He quickly reached for his desk drawer and pulled out his old revolver, holding it in his shaking hands as the person knocked once again, this time with much more force. Then, the doorknob slowly began to turn…

 

_Shit,_ Marty realized, _I forgot to lock the fucking door._

 

The door was kicked open, and Marty, his eyes clamped shut, aimed at the threshold and pulled the trigger on his revolver...which he realized was empty as a familiar ‘click’ sound echoed throughout the room.

 

He hesitantly opened his eyes, finding that the doorway was empty. Until he looked down and saw a four year old kid standing before him, an utterly blank expression on his face. Before he could even process this, the kid somehow leapt into the air and kicked his squarely in the jaw, knocking him over onto his desk.

 

“W-wha...what the fu…” he muttered, wincing in pain. Opening his eyes, he saw the boy shut the door and lock it behind him.

 

“The _Hell_ are you?!”

 

The boy responded by hopping up on the desk and kicking him in the face, knocking him to the floor. He proceeded to push everything off Marty’s desk, making the heaviest items fall on top of him of course; his (purchased off eBid) Music Producing Awards, his (fifteen-year-old) computer system, and so on until the man was thoroughly bruised.

 

Marty stumbled up off the floor, using the desk to force himself up. “What the fuck’s your _problem?”_ he asked, clutching his back in pain.

 

The boy was now rummaging through his drawers, and Marty then gained enough sense to realize that this was just a _kid._ He could take on some dumb kid, right?

 

He rushed over to the desk and picked him up, grabbing him violently by the arms. “Can you hear me, you fucking dipshit?”

 

And then, the kid’s expression turned _angry._ Like, “You just messed with the wrong psycho” angry. He proceeded to bite Marty’s thumb, making him loosen his grip, which turned out to be a huge mistake, as it was followed by yet another kick in the jaw as the boy jumped off of his face and back onto his desk, where he grabbed a familiar looking blue box before climbing down and grabbing something off of the dark floor.

 

_It was his revolver. Fuck._

 

Before he could even react, the boy had filled the barrel with bullets, and was aiming the gun directly, well, _at him._ Marty couldn’t put his hands up fast enough.

 

“Okay, okay…” Marty pleaded, “I know when I’m being held up. What do you want? _Money?_ There’s...twelve bucks in my wallet over there! You can take it!”

 

The boy shook his head.

 

“No? Okay, how about...49% of Martin Wurster Music Management? It’s a thriving industry!”

 

The boy shook his head again.

 

“Well for fuck’s sake _kid_! What the hell do you want?!”

 

The boy fired the revolver, aiming right above his head. It was a warning. He walked over to the cabinet blocking the window, and opened it, apparently searching for something. Marty had forgotten what was inside the cabinet; the last case of Guacola in existence, given to him for ‘promotional purposes’ that just happened to coincide with their liquidation. And to his surprise, the boy _opened one up and started drinking it._

 

“You want Guacola? Well you can have it! All of it!”

 

The boy didn’t shake his head, but merely shrugged, as if to indicate that this wasn’t what he was looking for, but that he was going to take it anyway. He walked back over to his desk and began rummaging through the man’s papers. Eventually, he found what he was looking for, a devilish smile appearing on his face.

 

It was his copyright certificate for Game System-based DJing.

 

“Wait a minute...you’re the kid of that Vidalia chick! Onion, was it? Is that what this is about?! Is Creamie boy upset his dad’s makin’ money?”

 

Onion held up the gun again, shutting up the aging music producer. He pulled out a lighter (“Who on Earth would give this kid a lighter?” Marty asked himself) and lit the certificate on fire.

 

“Wait!” Marty shouted, rushing forward and attempting to put out the flames. “You can’t do that! That was my last shot!”

 

_Poor choice of words,_ Onion thought, firing one last shot, directly into the man’s butt.

 

“Agh! God fucking dammit!” Marty yelped, falling to the floor.

 

Onion was generous enough to dial 911 on Marty’s phone and leave it off the hook before leaving, a fire still blazing atop his desk.

 

“Get back here you fucker! I’ll sue your family for everything they have!”

 

Onion, in the doorway, turned and gave Marty a vicious look. A look that said “No, you won’t” as much as it also said “Or else.” And then, he plastered a smile across his face and shut the door, walking merrily down the hallway, carrying a case of Guacola with him.

 

On his way out, he passed by several large men in black suits who were also heading for Marty’s office, but Onion paid them no mind. Outside, his mother’s car was about to be towed, but Onion simply hopped inside the tow truck, pushed out the driver, and started heading home.

 

\---

 

When Onion returned home, it was just about dinnertime.

 

“Onion!” Vidalia said, picking him up like a baby. “You made it just in time for supper. And I made your favorite: Mashed potatoes!”

 

Onion smiled in appreciation as she sat him down in his booster seat. Sour Cream was also at the table, idly scrolling through his phone.

 

“Sour Cream, care to join us?” Vidalia asked teasingly.

 

“Oh, right, right,” the young man said, about to put away his phone. “Wait…”

 

He looked at the screen more closely. “Holy...cow!”

 

“Nice save,” Vidalia laughed as she sat down across from him. “What’s up?”

 

“Martin Wurster arrested on drug charges after attack by Empire City mafia… Recovering in hospital... Assets withheld!”

 

“At long last! That jerk’s gettin’ what’s coming to him, I’ll say. Maybe now I’ll finally get that alimony, heh.”

 

“And now the DJs of the world can live without threat of tyranny or oppression…”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Vidalia shrugged, “But it does sound like you got someone lookin’ out for ya.”

 

Meanwhile, Onion played with his mashed potatoes, as usual. He liked the sound they made when he splattered them all over the place. It was a good sound.

 

And today was a good day.

**Author's Note:**

> ("Wurster" is the last name of Marty's voice actor, by the way)
> 
> (Also, I headcanon Onion as autistic like myself, so there are shades of that in here)
> 
> Special thanks to E350tb and realfakedoors for proofreading!


End file.
